Lost and Found
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: He's clever enough to know that the odds of things going back to the way they were are roughly that of Thompson suddenly obtaining a heart of gold. [ClaudeBennet], set after Parasite.


_Lost and Found_

* * *

The door opens.

I don't bother checking who the surprise visitor is – there are only two options, and neither is particularly appealing.

There are footsteps but no feet to accompany them.

…A third option.

"Claude?"

"No, it's the _other_ invisible man."

Well, it's him alright.

After years of checking corners for shadows of the past, I had to make sure.

"What are you-"

"Not here for the conversation, Bennet," his voice lies on the harsh edge of agitation. "Let's go."

"Sandra and Lyle-"

"They took 'em away."

I suppress the painful chill knitting a web throughout my stomach - it's not helping.

"Took them where?"

"The hell should I know?"

There's a pause, almost hesitant.

"Come on."

He puts his hand over my shoulder, and it's that odd familiar feeling I couldn't describe if I tried. Not that I care to try.

I can see him now, but he doesn't bother meeting my gaze. In fact, he seems to be actively avoiding it.

Can't blame him.

We take the customary route to the upper levels. It's almost like old times, except the circumstances are slightly inverted.

I could say I hope to never see this place again, but I doubt it's wish-granting day at Primatech.

When we get to the parking lot he lets go, turning visible.

"Claude, I'm-"

I don't get to complete the sentence – his fist gets in the way.

_…__Sorry. _

It's strong enough to knock me back against the nearest car. On cue, the alarm begins to serenade erratically, and I wonder if I've just earned the ticket back to my cell.

Luckily, nobody seems to place much importance on the plight of a solitary company car in the middle of the night.

I touch my face to assess the damage. Taste blood on my lip.

Right. No apologies, then.

I scan the surroundings, but Claude's nowhere to be seen. Which, admittedly, isn't saying much.

Did he take off?

Hit-and-run rescue. Now there's a novel concept.

"You comin' or not?"

I regain my footing and follow the voice.

* * *

I don't look at him. Not even in his general direction. Might have been slightly more effective if he could see _me_ but that's a detail I'm choosing to ignore. 

He doesn't speak up.

Perfect arrangement. Reminds me of kindergarten.

And it's a good thing he's keeping his mouth shut. Bastard was actually trying to _apologize_. I was almost tempted to leave him to fend for himself.

Sure worked out great last time.

Even punching him wasn't half as satisfying as I'd hoped it would be. Felt hollow, pointless.

Guess you can't pack seven years into a punch. Must be some stupid law of physics. Never liked those.

Not that they seemed all that fond of me, either.

Incidentally, I get an alarmed look from a trucker going past us.

What's the matter? Never seen a car without a driver before?

Magic of modern technology.

It's raining when we pull into a driveway, and since he doesn't have his jacket on he takes most of the damage.

Won't hear me complaining.

"We need to find them," he says as follows me into the house.

Funny how he suddenly feels comfortable using the word 'we'.

But it's his family he's talking about.

The only real family I've ever had, pathetic a cliché as that is.

Not that it matters now. To them, I'm dead at best, most likely non-existent.

That Haitian kid sure had an efficient way of making people disappear, invisible or not.

"Won't do any good now," I tell him. "We'll go tomorrow."

He furrows his brow but settles for a nod.

"So how did you know I was-"

"None of your business."

I hope that gets the message across clear enough. Chatting with him isn't on my agenda.

He doesn't push further, instead passing his gaze around the room inquisitively.

"What is this place?"

Temporary asylum I've occupied for a couple of days. Owners are on vacation.

Finders keepers, right?

"Home sweet home," I summarize. If I actually told him the truth he might insist on _leaving_, but this way he can pretend anything he wants.

I leave him in the living room and head for the kitchen, hoping to find something worthwhile in the fridge.

Taking clues about as well as a lobotomized puppy, he follows me instead of staying put.

"Claude," he begins with that overly cautious note of his, getting on my last nerve, "we can't go on like this. We need to sort things out."

Should've stuck with professional cowardice. At least that I'm used to.

Now I'm stuck with _him_ instead.

And he's all bent on 'sorting things out' - whatever _that_ means.

"What do you _want_, Bennet?" I get in his space, push him back to the wall. "To go back to the way thing used to be? All nice and friendly-like?" I keep no reign on the mocking nature of the question - let it slice into him, cut through that blank, earnest mask of his. "Wanna share a beer, watch a game?"

He keeps silent, gazing at me with a trapped, dormant energy, like he's still in his Primatech cage. Probably is.

He's clever enough to know that the odds of things going back to the way they were are roughly that of Thompson suddenly obtaining a heart of gold. And maybe joining a traveling cabaret troupe while he's at it.

"Or somethin' else?"

And he knows _exactly_ what I mean.

But just in case he's had a memory relapse, I take it on myself to remind him.

I don't think about it, just reach for his belt and unbuckle it, going for the zipper next.

He watches my movements, makes none of his own, like a good little soldier.

It's a wonder he's not in parade rest.

I open his pants, slip my hand into his underwear. Don't put much ceremony in it – this isn't even about _us_.

It's about him getting a clue. Seeing exactly where it is _we_ stand.

He flinches as I make contact with skin, works up to a frown when I take hold of him.

I start with sharp, business-like strokes.

He tries to reach towards me - I push him back.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Bennet."

He should know I'm in control here. This isn't how it used to be - never will be. He's only got himself to blame.

He complies – big surprise there, and I keep at it. He stays still - eyelids lowering, jaw locking to the point of teeth gritting.

At least there's no question that it's getting through to him.

I meet his gaze - hesitate for a second, because it contains something I didn't expect to see. Didn't _want_ to see.

Trust.

He still trusts me.

Well, it's not like he has a reason not to – _he_ wasn't the one who was backstabbed by his partner, his _best friend_, and got dropped off a bridge without so much as a compensation letter. Wasn't the one pretending to be a bloody ghost for seven years – and not one of those jolly, friendly types like Casper, either.

Pretending. If only it'd stopped there.

I_ was_ a ghost.

Doesn't matter – I can't trust _him_ as far as I can throw him, which isn't nearly as far as I'd like. At least Peter came with good leverage and tossing insurance.

Bennet comes with baggage instead. And memories.

Some of them far better than they have the right to be.

It makes it all the worse.

I increase the pace, the pressure. He opens his mouth - tries to say something but the words get stuck somewhere down his throat, choked out of existence.

Well, _good_.

I don't _need_ distractions. Don't need a goddamn thing, as a matter of fact, especially from him. All I need is to just get it the fuck over with so we can go back to ignoring each other. The way it should be.

He isn't making it easy.

Can't take it with his eyes shut like anyone with just an ounce of sense would.

He has his gaze locked on me, eyes glassy but focused, and it's like tiny soul fractures are gonna start flying out any second, maybe do a little poltergeist dance or something.

Bastard is giving me _puppy eyes_.

Unbelievable. Just fucking _unbelievable_.

Struggling with an uneven breath, he finally manages to speak.

"_Claude._"

The word is muted, torn, like it went through a shredder before emerging. It wavers, held together by jagged emotion, and it's somehow both a plea and a command.

And it's not even my bloody _name_, but when he says it like that it's just -

Fuck control. Fuck willpower. Like _they_ ever did me any good.

Doesn't matter how bitter I am, how broken he is.

Son of a bitch's _always_ the one calling the shots.

I let go of him – my hand is almost shaking; kind of defeats the purpose, that. Nothing feels particularly steady. _Fuck_.

I look away, catch a breath – gonna need it in a second.

You can't pack seven years into a punch.

How the hell am I gonna pack them into a kiss?

It's an idiotic thought on top of an idiotic day, and when I crush my lips to his, I realize that I really couldn't care less.

He gives a muffled groan – don't know if it's pain or surprise or both - his lip is bruised, and I consider that a bonus because I can at least pretend that I'm hurting him.

Except I've never actually _wanted_ to, not even when I was bleeding out alone on a river bank.

He regains some ground, running his tongue over my lip and a second later we're sharing breath and it's so familiar – less like riding a bicycle and more like phantom pain, only real.

It's not tender and it's not well-paced and it's far from perfect, but it's _something_ and that's more than I've had in – _God_ - far too long.

But I need _more_, and now that it's actually an option, even if a bloody _stupid_ one, I'm not letting it go – I press closer, bring my hands to his face.

Damn glasses get in the way – I take them off him, toss them over to the table without a great deal of care.

He glares at me.

This is the first annoyed look I've gotten from him today, and - God I missed it.

Touchy about the glasses, will have to keep that in mind.

Doesn't last long - his mouth is back on mine, looking for answers or a lost connection or - whatever it is, it's pretty fucking urgent.

I run my hand through his hair – it's always had this habit of sticking up when left to its own devices, like it's trying to rebel against his smoothed-out image. He always found that upsetting. I found it amusing. Kind of endearing, even.

That could be the _reason_ he found it upsetting, actually.

His input so far amounts to that of a blow up doll, and it occurs to me that it might be because I haven't given him permission.

"You know, you're actually allowed to move now, Bennet."

Bad idea.

He moves fast.

Whatever miserable leftovers of control I've managed to hold on to get tossed away as his hands find their way under my shirt, running along my back.

He withdraws after a moment. "You have too many clothes on," he notes.

Hey, I didn't say he was allowed to _talk_.

"And why is that a problem?"

"It's an unfair advantage."

I scowl at him.

"I think I've earned myself a bit of _unfair advantage_, Bennet."

He looks down, properly deterred - can't dance around that particular loophole.

But what the hell - might as well get rid of the jacket. Getting kind of warm in here anyway. I slip out of it and let it drop to the floor. Not much of a hygiene issue, considering it hasn't seen a washing machine in years, possibly ever.

He sends it a brief critical glance, but he's not in any position to judge.

He's still losing in the pants territory.

A jumble of frantic movements lead to the conclusion that a vertical position just won't do here - his back connects with the floor and then things grind to a halt.

"Wait," he grunts, face caught in a pained grimace.

Fantastic. _Now_ what?

I unbutton his shirt.

"Wonderful."

There it is.

A stitched up gunshot wound decorating his abdomen. Recent. Couldn't have been more than a couple of days.

"Didn't think to tell me you were injured?"

"You didn't ask for an update."

Idiot.

I brush my thumb over it lightly - his stomach muscles flex for a moment, relaxing once he gets accustomed to the touch. It's not the worst place to take a bullet, but there's really no such thing as a _good_ place.

"Might've postponed punchin' you if I knew."

He puts on a narrow smile.

"Didn't want to deprive you of it."

Well, that was thoughtful of him.

"So how about it?"

"How about what?"

"An update."

His gaze wanders away.

"Had an incident," he relays colorfully, "with a bridge." He looks back at me, doing his practiced robot drill, letting no emotions slip through, "Don't remember much."

He's never been a man of many words, but talk about _concise_.

But I suppose I can afford to let go of detail-orientation for the time being.

The injury limits our possibilities - wouldn't want him to start a B-movie-style blood fountain.

On top of that, I notice he's suppressing a shiver.

"Cold?"

"Maybe a little," he concedes.

Knowing him, this probably means he's been on the slow track to self-refrigeration for some time now.

Of course, Bennet would never admit a weakness. That'd be too _human_.

Looks like the kitchen floor might not be the ideal location for the occasion.

I drag him along to the bedroom - it has a nice king size bed and while I doubt the owner would appreciate the invasion what he doesn't know can't hurt him, now can it?

"Lie down," I instruct.

Taking orders is an art form for him. This is no exception.

I climb on top of him, lock my knees around his waist.

He aids in the noble efforts of peeling my shirt off.

Teamwork is a beautiful thing.

I press my mouth to his neck - stop as his hand flattens against my chest. I pull back, and he shoots an appraising look to my beard.

"Tickles," he elaborates.

_Tickles_. Amazing.

"Oh, that's terrible, Bennet. Heartbreaking," I employ my most sympathetic voice. Can't maintain it for too long, sadly. "_Deal_ with it."

Without further objections from him, I return to explore his chest and stomach, only this time I make sure to provide as much beard exposure as possible.

See, for _me_, getting on his nerves is an art form.

Maybe we could open a bloody gallery together.

I make a stop just below the navel - magic spot for him, for some reason.

His breathing becomes lower, with an undercurrent of urgency.

He didn't seem thrilled to be taking it the fast and easy way, so he better not whine about pacing.

I pull his pants down, resettle between his thighs, cover every possible spot before getting down to business.

He keeps one hand in my hair, the other digging into the mattress for support.

Beds can be dangerously unstable these days.

I take a brief break from tongue work to scrape with my teeth – that always gets a reaction. Doesn't fail this time either – he releases a stifled moan, fingers flexing aimlessly.

I make a strategic pause, search for his reaction.

It consists mainly of an unfocused, narrow-eyed gaze, like he's looking for the right word. Or just struggling with the strange and unusual concept of coherency.

I raise my brow, watch him with an infinite supply of patience. I've had a lot of time to save it up.

After several looks ranging from desperate irritation to irritated desperation, and a couple of wordless attempts, he manages to groan a word out.

"_Please._"

Well.

If he's so polite about it.

I speed up, readjust to the rhythm of his body – disturbingly easy, almost natural, even now.

He always forgets to breathe in the last few seconds.

Only thing that breaches the silence is a borderline gasp, and he goes limp.

I spit, adding littering to my extensive list of crimes and misdemeanors.

Hope nobody was particularly attached to this carpet.

I sit down next to him, lean back. Watch him draw rapid, shallow breaths, gradually stretching into more leveled ones. Sweat on his forehead and below his lip.

It's one of the rare occasions he can look completely out of order and not seem to mind.

I like that look on him.

Used to, anyway. I'm not supposed to like _any_ look on him now.

I'm getting accustomed to this too bloody quickly, getting too comfortable.

Last thing this should be is _comfortable_.

Not after all this time. Not after everything. It never should've been comfortable to begin with, really.

Spend years putting up walls and learning to accept reality for the cold, merciless bitch it is, only to have them go all house-of-cards on you because your ex-partner – the same one who tried to bloody _kill_ _you_ - can do a mean sad-eyes routine.

Bit unfair, isn't it?

See, I don't give a flying fuck about the 'nature of man', or 'mankind', or any of those fancy, meaningless words.

You don't get to hate humanity over wars, global disasters or rotten governments.

All it takes is one person.

And now I'm lying in bed next to him.

Son of a bitch doesn't even have the decency to play the part of the monster he was supposed to be. Just a forgotten soldier treading in a no man's land.

Only human.

And it's suddenly important – he needs to know. Probably won't even understand it anyway, but he should hear it.

"I was _dead_, Bennet."

It doesn't even come out bitter. Blank, more like - suspended by vacuum. I'm not even sure why I said it.

He gives me _the look_, the one that used to make me wonder if Thompson was just messing with me about him being normal, and that he really had some sort of highly evolved X-ray vision.

"You aren't anymore."

It's that usual pragmatic note he's so good at hitting.

So dry and factual that I can't help but find it hilarious.

I let a harsh chuckle loose.

"Guess I'm not. Bloody miracle, huh? And it's not even Christmas."

He's right though. That's the sad part.

Been playing dead so long I've almost forgotten what being alive is like.

It's an odd sensation, like going out of general anesthesia, but without the complementary lollipop. Do they even give those out after surgery anymore? Last time I had one, I was nine.

My _other_ operations were all Primatech-exclusive, and Thompson didn't give out lollipops. That was the only plus side to it.

"Claude, can I…" he asks, hesitant, seeking approval.

And he's always wanted, _needed_ my approval, I know that much – even when he was holding that gun, struggling to find resolve, begging for an excuse.

Guess he didn't need it that bad.

Haven't even _considered_ trusting anyone since then, except for that little slipup with the magical Sponge-Poodle – must've been something infecting about his rainbows and roses and whiskers on kittens philosophy.

It's a bad-taste sort of irony for _Bennet _to be the first, now.

But when has irony been particularly well-mannered?

"Knock yourself out, Bennet."

He raises an eyebrow, smirks.

"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

He takes the long route down, visiting old scars.

He doesn't search for them – remembers each exact spot.

Especially the ones _he_ left.

He marks them with traces of warm air, occasionally seeking eye contact, looking so goddamn _intent_. Like it's all a part of some master plan. And with him, maybe it is.

He hasn't picked up any new tricks. There's something strangely comforting about that.

As dedicated as usual – efficient and methodical, like an assignment.

A man on a mission.

I might've found the will to laugh if I hadn't needed this so goddamn much.

I've _always_ needed it more. And he's always been the one in control. Even if he didn't want to acknowledge it.

The one with the family, the priorities, the complications.

Okay, _complications_ there were enough of to go around for the both of us.

Musings about the past are cut off as the back of my head bumps sharply against the headboard.

_Fuck_.

So much for not learning new tricks.

He looks up to meet my gaze, almost smiling – fucking bastard.

He resumes his duties and sensations speed up, radiating through my stomach – I start to lose control of my breathing but who needs it anyway?

Doesn't take too long – patience may be a virtue and all but sometimes –

It's just -

Not an option.

My vision goes for a light swim. I find myself a spot a between release and dizziness and enjoy the void.

He swallows – maybe because spitting isn't polite, or maybe his taste receptors are defective – never could quite figure it out.

He resettles next to me, but I barely register his presence.

I listen to the gradually dulling pounding in my ears, close my eyes. Slowly begin to lose my grip on reality.

"She can heal," he says out of nowhere, jolting me from my slip into the subconscious. "Spontaneous regeneration." I turn my head to him – the boldest movement my lethargic state allows. He gets that stupid grin on his face, the kind he used to reserve for the _cool_ abilities, but this time it's got an edge of pride to it, "It's amazing."

The smile disappears, replaced by a frown.

There's some intense emotion trapped in his eyes, but he keeps a tight reign on it, and only a fraction manages to escape when he speaks again.

"I couldn't let them take her."

Nice of him to finally arrive to that realization. Too bad it's seven years overdue.

He can be a bit slow like that.

Something akin to a proper 'I told you so' is in order and I spend a minute coming up with a little speech, but when I turn back to him I catch him staring at the ceiling with a quiet desperation.

"Bennet," I reach out to touch his shoulder. "We'll find 'em. It'll be alright."

He nods distractedly.

"I know."

Yeah, he _always_ knows. It's his automatic response to everything. I once considered telling him that Primatech was really a sub-division of the Ghostbusters to see if he _knew_.

He doesn't _know_. And it scares the living hell out of him.

He has no one to give him answers. Or orders, for that matter. Must be tough, missing his usual set of instructions.

Might actually need to do something radical now, like develop a mind of his own.

"Claude, I just-" there's a note of pained honesty in his voice, and I know exactly where this is going.

Stubborn bastard.

More strategic a move on his part this time, since now I'm not in the position to punch him. Bad angle.

Which, I have to say, is pretty fucking tragic.

"I'm sorry."

This isn't a formality. I know he means it.

This is where things get hard with him.

Reason I didn't want him saying those words, other than them being idiotic and pointless that is, was because somewhere along the way I must've already forgiven him – not because I'm such a generous soul, but because he needs it, and so do I.

Of course, _he _doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, Bennet, I kinda figured that out."

That should do for now.

I should get away, regain some distance, catch up on some quality invisibility time, but I don't want to.

I want _him_.

Don't much care to admit it, but it's a bit late for that now.

It's not gonna be easy, but it's _us_, and when has that ever been easy?

Numbness starts taking hold, or maybe it's only now fading away.

For a second, I actually _feel_ like the man who was supposed to die on that bridge seven years ago. The clueless, idealistic moron.

And I don't really mind the feeling.

Senseless an idea as it was, going on this stupid little rescue mission was probably the best decision I've made in seven years.

"Claude?"

"Hmm?"

"When was the last time you showered?"

You know what? I take that back.

I should've bloody left him there.


End file.
